


Owl Me Maybe?

by AimaDuragon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drinking & Talking, First Dates, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Happy Ending, M/M, Male Slash, Mistaken identities, Nervous Harry, Not Canon Compliant, Polyjuice Potion, Sassy Draco, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-09 08:10:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13477320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AimaDuragon/pseuds/AimaDuragon
Summary: One night, Harry decides to go to a Polyjuice bar, and it's definitely not because he wants to hit on his ferret-faced rival. Because that would be crazy...





	1. Owl Me Maybe?

**Author's Note:**

> Just a fun bit of Drarry fluff! If you'd like a chance to vote on what I work on next, please follow me on Tumblr (under the same sn)! Hope you enjoy!
> 
> This story is un-beta'd, so all mistakes are my own.

Harry was nervous.

It didn't matter that the evening was pleasant and cool, or that he was wearing his lucky 'I bleed red and gold' briefs—he was undoubtedly and incontrovertibly nervous. He hadn't sweat this much since the embarrassing fiasco at Ron's bachelor party. Even considering the extra applications of deodorant he’d slathered on before he’d left home, things still weren’t looking good for his green button-down. Harry grimaced, glancing down at himself. He was going to ruin his shirt if he wasn't careful. Drawing his wand, he muttered yet another cleaning charm under his breath and ordered his nerves to contain themselves.

So what if this was his first night alone out at a gay bar? So what if Ron and Hermione couldn’t come with him because they were celebrating Valentine’s Day like a normal couple? Going out alone wasn't such a big deal, right?

Right. It was just a bar. Your typical, run-of-the-mill, good-ole, every day Polyjuice bar. Harry swallowed audibly. No big deal. 

And besides that, it was a bargain that had been too good to pass up. 

This particular Polyjuice bar—a place called The Rainbow Chameleon (which was, in Harry's opinion, taking the definition of cliché to a new extreme)—had offered to give him a free membership in exchange for weekly samples of his hair. And considering how much a membership at that place cost, it was pretty much like winning the clubbing lottery. The thing was, he had to give them an answer by tomorrow morning. He, Ron, and Hermione had been meaning to make it out to the club for weeks now, but things had kept coming up. So here he was, Valentine’s Day night, walking towards The Rainbow Chameleon with a vial of hair samples in hand and a bundle of nerves in his stomach.

The bar itself was tucked neatly between two competing furniture stores in downtown London, hidden from muggle sight by a slew of charms that Harry had never bothered learning. He wished he had learned them now, since he’d already gotten lost twice, and was now chancing casting disillusionment spells every couple of steps he took. Finally, after one of his spells bounced messily off a lamppost, the club made its appearance. 

The two furniture stores gave a loud groan as they split apart, and despite having seen buildings do far stranger things, Harry found himself staring at them in silent awe. The red brick of the club’s front filled the tall, narrow space, with nothing but a sign and a black door for decoration. It was a much quainter picture than Harry had imagined for a club with such a shamelessly gaudy title. Only a few moments later, however, his nose was assaulted with the fragrance of roses. Harry glanced up dubiously and saw thousands of rose petals floating not ten feet overhead. _Merlin help me_ , Harry thought, his nose wrinkling, _just when I thought I was catching a break_. 

He stepped forward beneath the sign—a polished wooden board with white lettering and a red border—hanging just above the large, black door. Harry's gait faltered as he neared the entrance, and he couldn't help the nervous glance he cast back over his shoulder. But no one at the street paid him any attention. Doubtless, the club had charmed him as well. 

Reaching out, he slipped his fingers around the cool metal of the doorknob, twisted, and pushed. The door swung open into a narrow hallway with plush red carpeting as a chime sounded from somewhere overhead. On the left side, at the far end of the hall, Harry saw that the upper half of the wall arched over a narrow ledge. Seeing nowhere else to go, he pushed the door shut behind him and began walking down the hall. The smell of roses still hung heavily in the air, and it was beginning to make Harry's nose tingle unpleasantly.

He finally reached the inlet, which opened up into a small room, separated from the hall by a narrow desk. On the other side of the desk sat a young man about Harry's age. He had sandy brown hair, hazel eyes ringed with black eyeliner, and lips that were stained a shade of red that really did nothing for his— _No_! Harry berated himself silently. He may be at a gay bar, but he certainly wasn't going to start thinking about shades of lipstick. Just… _no_.

The young man clacked the papers he was organizing against the desktop and swiveled in his chair to face Harry. "Oh, I'm sorry, sir. I—" And then he saw Harry's face, and his overly red lips lost all capability of coherent speech. "I—I can't believe—it's—you're—"

"Harry Potter, yes, I’m well aware." Harry tried not to sound overly demeaning. At least the other man's nerves seemed to calm his own. He set the vial of his hair clippings on the desk and slid it forward. "I've been exchanging owls with Noey? He said if I brought this," his eyes flicked down to indicate the vial, "that I could get in for free.”

"I—yes! Yes, of course!" The young man took the vial with trembling hands. "Just—ah—choose someone from the list and I'll ready a potion for you." He gestured up at a board overhead that Harry hadn't noticed before. It was a list of names. _A menu_ , he realized with a growing sense of trepidation. 

Pulse pounding, Harry began scanning the selections.

_Agrippa (age 28)_

_Andros the Invincible (age 31)_

_Heathcote Barbary (age 24)_

_Albus Dumbledore (age 23) (Red Member Exclusive)_

_Merton Graves (age 22)_

_Godric Gryffindor (age unknown) (Red Member Exclusive)_

_Gwenog Jones (age 23)_

_Draco Malfoy (age 20) (Green Member Exclusive)_

_Harry Potter (age 20) (Red Member Exclusive)_

_Salazar Slytherin (age unknown) (Green Member Exclusive)_

_Severus Snape (age 25) (Green Member Exclusive)_

_Myron Wagtail (age 27)_

_Bowman Wright (age 22)_

Harry couldn't help the snort of laughter that escaped him as he read Draco Malfoy's name. Who the hell would ever want to be that ferret-faced git? And how Snape managed to make the list as well was beyond Harry’s comprehension. 

"Have you made a decision, Mr. Potter?" the young man asked, sounding much more sure of himself now.

Harry blinked. "I—er—" He stared back up at the list. Well…as long as his name was already on the list (and he didn't even want to think about how they'd managed _that_ )… "Can I just go in as myself this time?"

The young man seemed startled by the question. "Well, no one really does that here except—" he pressed his lips together suddenly, his face flushing. "Of course you can, Mr. Potter. Of course. Go right on in."

Harry smiled and thanked him as the wall to his right shifted. It opened up into another long hall, lit by charmed candles that had blue flames instead of yellow. The reflection of their flames danced across the overhead crystal chandeliers and made them glitter like shards of ice. Harry's ears thrummed with the dull beat of music, and it drew him forward like a siren's call. He jumped slightly when the wall closed behind him, but just at it clicked shut, another wall opened at the far end of the hall. The blue glow was suddenly fringed with red, and the music grew even louder. Taking deep steadying breaths, Harry made his way towards the red light.

Once he drew closer, he could hear voices—people talking, mingling, laughing, and doing whatever else people did at clubs. The hall ended abruptly and opened up into a large room. There were men everywhere, but Harry could tell from the denser clusters that the bar was situated on the left and the dance floor on the right. The club expanded farther back as well, but Harry didn't bother with anything beyond a precursory glance. He could explore later. Right now, he needed a drink. Preferably a strong one.

Mind set, Harry began weaving his way towards the bar. Fortunately enough, there weren't too many of his doppelgängers walking around, though strangely most of the ones he did see weren't wearing glasses. How they managed to see was beyond him. A spell? Contacts maybe? Harry tried not to dwell on it too much, or on the fact that one particular doppelgänger had unabashedly eyed him up and down.

Even stranger, however, was the number of Draco Malfoys. One passed him just then, and Harry gave him a hard, discerning look. Maybe he could admit that the blond wasn't as hideous as remembered. Harry cocked his head. Okay, so maybe he was bloody gorgeous (when in the world had that happened?), but this guy—whoever he was—had him all wrong. His hair was swept forward instead of back, hiding the prominence of Malfoy's large grey eyes, and his smile was way too shy. Harry wasn't even going to touch the subject of wardrobe. Wrong. All of it. Wrong. Though the trousers he was wearing did cling nicely to—Harry shook himself. 

He definitely needed that drink.

Harry pushed his way through the suffocating crowd until he reached open air at the edge of the bar. He leaned against the granite counter heavily and waved at the bartender. But apparently there were other, more thirsty looking, customers who required his attention.

“You're going to have to tip him first.”

The hairs on the back of Harry's neck stood on end. He turned to see Draco Malfoy smirking at him—or no—someone who _looked_ like Draco Malfoy.

"Oh." Harry swallowed against the lump that had suddenly sprouted in his throat. "Why's that?"

Not-Malfoy quirked a pale, perfectly sculpted brow. "If you take a good look at his arse, I think you’ll find the answer your question."

Harry looked and felt his face heat. Arseless chaps. He quickly averted his eyes and dug his hand into his pocket, pulling out a couple galleons. He made sure the bartender was watching when he dropped them into the tip jar.

"What's your name?" Not-Malfoy asked.

_Crap_! Harry turned back towards the other man. He couldn't just say his name was Harry Potter, could he? Was that allowed? Did people do that? Best to just come up with a fake name. "John." Yeah, okay…because that wasn't the lamest fake name _ever_! "What's yours?" Why couldn't he have picked something suave? Something cool? Like—

"Damien."

Damien! Damien would’ve been a great fake name! Though, it was probably Not-Malfoy’s real name since he had no need for a fake name like Harry did. This was already getting way too confusing. 

"Is it your first time here?" Damien asked conversationally.

Harry frowned. "Is it that obvious?"

“Maybe. The tipping paradigm is usually the first thing most people learn here so it kind of gave you away."

"Oh…"

Damien leaned in towards him then, and all of the air seemed to leave Harry's lungs. When _had_ Malfoy’s lips gotten that plump? Or had they always been that way? And if so, how had he never noticed? Alright, so maybe the last time he’d noticed anything about Malfoy’s lips it was only because he’d wanted to punch his teeth in. But still!

"May I tell you something, John?" Damien’s voice was a soft, velvet purr—something that Harry also didn’t remember Malfoy possessing. 

"I—yes," Harry stuttered dumbly, making a consolidated effort _not_ to look at his mouth when he spoke.

"I've seen quite a few Harry Potters come through here, but you by _far_ are the best." Damien's eyes raked his body. "Really. You've got him down to a tee.”

Harry blinked, stunned for an overly long second before he finally realized that it was probably strange that he looked like himself. He was supposed to be someone else after all. That was the whole point. 

“Is that so?” Harry asked.

“Quite.”

Harry tried to mold his lips into something other than a confused frown. ”And how would you know that exactly? Do you stalk him or something?" It was Harry's attempt at flirting. He _sucked_ at flirting. Not to mention it put him on edge that the person he was trying to flirt with was currently wearing the face of his long-time rival.

"No." Damien smirked again, sipping idly from his caramel colored drink. "But I've seen him often enough to know." His face contorted briefly in thought. "How about you though?"

"What?"

"I mean," he leveled Harry with a look that could've melted tungsten, "how do _you_ know his look so well?"

"I—er—" Harry floundered. "I've seen him before a few times too. And he was in the newspapers so much…" He trailed off, hoping it was enough. New subject. He needed a new subject! "You make a pretty good Draco Malfoy too, by the way."

And now that Harry mentioned it, he noticed that Damien really _did_ make for a good Draco Malfoy. His hair was swept back, not as rigidly as when they were in school, but it was still immaculate. And his clothing practically shouted ‘I could feed a small country with the money I spent on this outfit’. His expression, too, was uncanny. Confidence interlaced with a deep-seated pride, and just a dash of condemnation. It was all there, in the curve of his mouth and the tilt of his head. The only thing different was the eyes. Damien's were softer—more full of warmth.

Damien grinned, seemingly amused by Harry's statement. "You really think so?"

"I do." Harry returned the grin. "Though, you seem like you’re much more pleasant to be around."

Damien's expression faltered.

"What'll it be, sweetheart?" the bartender's voice rang in Harry's ear.

Harry turned to see the bartender staring at him expectantly. "Oh, well…I…um…" What was that one drink he liked?

"We'll have two double shots of tequila, top-shelf, and he'll have a Kamikaze," Damien said.

A Kamikaze! That was it! Harry nodded in agreement, and tried not to stare when the bartender turned around and began making their drinks. Instead Harry looked at Damien, only to find that he was looking right back. His eyes were a hard, unrelenting sort of grey, reflecting the red light like steel thrown into a forge. 

"On me, alright?" Damien said.

Harry bit his lip. "No, you really don't have to—"

Damien pressed two fingers to Harry's lips, which made his heart stutter. "I insist." When he lowered his hand, his thumb lingered over Harry's bottom lip for just a second too long before it finally dropped back to his side.

_Oh God_. _Ohgodohgodohgod_! Malfoy was totally trying to get in his pants! Or no—Damien was trying to get into his pants! The mere thought made Harry's face bloom with heat. Well his pants were definitely off limits! His shirt, however, was negotiable. He couldn't deny that he wouldn't mind seeing the other man with his shirt off as well. From the looks of it, Malfoy still kept up with his Quidditch training and— _WHOA_! This was Malfoy's body, not Damien's, and he _did not_ want to see Malfoy's body. Did! Not! He repeated this to himself several times over, willing his nether regions to agree. Why the hell did he think it would be a good idea to come here again? This was way too stressful.

Thankfully, the tequila and Kamikaze arrived not a moment later. Harry and Damien each took a shot, clinked glasses and downed the amber liquid. The burn of it seemed to slide down Harry's throat only to crawl back up again.

"Here."

Suddenly, a crescent of lime was shoved into his mouth.

"Suck," Damien ordered.

Harry did, and gave a relieved sigh through his nose as the juice coated his tongue. He sank his teeth into the fruit's flesh, trying to get every last ounce of liquid out of it. In his zeal, he felt some of the juice spill over his lips and slide down his chin.

Damien made a strange gagging sort of noise. Clearing his throat, he reached up and wiped the juice away with the pad of his thumb. He then brought the digit to his mouth, and Harry watched in silent awe as the tip of his pink tongue swept over his skin.

Harry very nearly choked on his lime, because _holy fuck that was hot_! And the way the blond's eyes—sharp and flashing like steel—were boring into him…Harry shivered and pulled the lime from his mouth. This was so messed up. He was _not_ supposed to find someone wearing Mafloy's face this attractive. Who the hell licked juice off of people's faces anyway? That move had trashy romance novel written all over it! Maybe this Damien guy was actually just some well-to-do romance novel enthusiast getting his kicks by wearing a handsome face. Harry set his lime down on the bar, suddenly realizing that Damien might be thinking the exact same thing about him. Sans the romance novel enthusiast bit. Hopefully. 

"You even have his clumsiness down," Damien said with a snicker. "And that adorable vacant expression as well."

"I—" Harry blushed as his lips pursed. "My expression isn't vacant!"

"Oh no?" Damien mocked.

"It’s…” Harry tried to think of a clever word. All that came out was, “Pensive!"

The blond nodded somberly. "Oh, yes, pensive. Of course, of course that’s what I meant. Forgive me, I momentarily lost my grip on the English language." Then his mouth stretched out into a wide, curling grin, and Harry's heart flipped. He had never seen Malfoy smile before. Not like that. It…it looked pretty good on him.

"Hey," the sound of Malf—Damien's!—voice pulled him back to reality. "What do you say we move to the back where it's a bit more quiet?"

The nerves that had been fluttering in Harry’s chest, gave a single, unified flap. "Erm, sure."

Smiling that same smile that inexplicably had Harry's insides melting, Damien grabbed his drink and gestured for Harry to follow him. Harry did, very nearly forgetting his own drink in the process. When they reached the bulk of the crowd, Damien reached back and took Harry's hand in his own. Harry was suddenly very thankful that it was so dark, because he was pretty sure that his face now closely resembled the color of Ron's hair. It was strange somehow, that this hand that had hit him so many times was so soft and warm. This pressure of his fingers was so gentle it felt like his hand had just been wrapped in a silken cloth. He wondered what that hand would feel like wrapped around— _whoa there, Harry, calm down_. _Just caaaaaalm down. Deep breaths. You_ did not _just imagine_ anything _about Draco Malfoy's hand!_

Together they pushed and weaved their way through the thick crowd. Well, Damien pushed and weaved while Harry had his arse grabbed more times than he cared to admit. They rounded a corner and suddenly the red light was exchanged for a muted shade of lavender.

The sound of the music was definitely much softer here, and Harry immediately realized that that was because this room was not for dancing. White leather loveseats littered the floor, separated by long bronze vases that held bundled stalks of pale glowing branches. It looked as if they had just stepped into some fairy tale's version of an enchanted forest…with furniture.

"It's a bit cheesy, I know," Damien said, "but it's the only quiet place in the club, aside from the black room. But something tells me you're not into that kind of thing."

"What kind of thing?"

Damien looked at him, his eyes dancing. "Exhibitionism," he answered with a wink.

Harry blushed. People really did that kind of thing? "Ha—have you ever been in there?"

"Once—out of curiosity mostly—but I never participated. The only reason people do anything in that room is to show off, which I’ve never felt the need to do.” Damien leaned in closer, and Harry's nose was filled with the scent of his cologne. "I happen to already know the…prodigiousness of my abilities." The last word came out in a husky sort of purr that had Harry's blood boiling. 

“That’s an awfully big word to use on someone you accuse of having a vacant expression,” Harry said thickly, his senses very nearly overwhelmed. 

Damien gave a dark huff of laughter. ”Would you like to sit?" Damien gestured towards one of the unoccupied couches.

Harry nodded, swallowing audibly. Yeah, sitting was probably a good idea seeing as his legs were threatening to give out at any moment. They made their way over to a couch and took a seat, closer together than was absolutely necessary.

Damien took a long drink from his glass before setting it down on a nearby coffee table. Harry mirrored the action. Thankfully the tequila finally seemed to be hitting him. He’d never been able to hold much liquor. The room felt much lighter now—less daunting—and the color of Damien’s eyes wasn't quite as unsettling as it had been before.

"You don't drink much do you?" Damien said, chuckling to himself.

"No—er—well, not anymore anyway."

"Ah," the blond nodded, "bad experience?"

"Bad would be an understatement I think."

Damien inched even closer to Harry. "It wasn't at last year's Hogwarts' class reunion party, was it?"

Holy fuck, this guy had been there? But he didn't know of any Damiens from Hogwarts…

"Sorry," Damien waved off the question. "Just a joke. I'm sure you read about what an arse Potter made of himself. It was even better in person though, trust me. But really, his friends never should've let him play truth or dare when he was that intoxicated." He grinned wickedly and took another drink. "I have to say though, for a bloke he looked rather fetching in a mini-skirt. I almost envy that lap dance Finnigan got from him."

Oh, this was not good. Definitely not good. He _knew_ this guy, and this guy _knew_ him! And he knew about the skirt. Oh, Merlin, _the skirt_.

But it was fine. There was no reason to panic just yet. Neither of them knew who the other was, and as long as it remained that way then nothing they said here really mattered. So he was safe. He just had to be careful. He couldn’t give himself away by saying something stupid. That wouldn’t be so hard…

Damien laughed again and the sound of it made Harry's heart swell, until he remembered that the sound of the laugh actually belonged to Malfoy. He immediately pushed the feeling down. "Don't look so mortified, John. It was all good, innocent fun."

Harry attempted to laugh, but just ended up coughing.

The blond frowned. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah." Harry cleared his throat and blinked the tears from his eyes. "I just—does this place ever get to you? I mean, sitting here with me, aren't you wondering who I really am?"

Damien spared the room a thoughtful glance before settling back on Harry. ”Well…it's meant to be a fantasy. I'm not supposed to think about who you really are."

"So you're supposed to think I'm Harry Potter?"

Even Damien’s shrug was elegant. "Just as you're meant to think of me as Draco Malfoy."

"So you fantasize about being with Harry Potter then?"

For some reason, this seemed to horrify Damien. His eyes went wide and he began fidgeting with the collar of his shirt. “What? No—I mean, maybe a little I suppose. Doesn't everyone?"

Harry didn't know, and he didn't want to know. He just wanted to know if Damien did.

"Why do you think people come here if not for that?"

"I don't know," Harry said, gesturing vaguely. "To escape?"

Damien's eyes searched him restlessly, and something in his expression seemed to soften. Malfoy's face looked much nicer that way—all smooth lines and soft shadows. "Escape what?"

"Anything. Everything. I mean, to be able to go somewhere and not be yourself—to be able to just blend in—that's what I thought was meant by all of it. That’s why I came.” Harry smiled tentatively. “Is that stupid?"

"Incredibly," Damien whispered. Then he dragged his tongue across his bottom lip and Harry's heart skipped. "But that's just the sort of thing he would say."

Harry wanted to ask who, but for some reason his throat didn't seem to be working. Maybe it had something to do with the way Damien's eyes kept dropping to his mouth.

"If it's all the same to you,” Damien said, leaning forward ever so slightly so that Harry could feel his breath against his mouth, “I think I'd like to kiss you now."

And suddenly Harry couldn't breathe. His ribcage tightened in against his lungs, threatening to squeeze the very life out of him. Then, Damien leaned in further, and time seemed to slow. The next moment hung between them, breathless and heated with anticipation.

Then their lips met, and Harry realized something that should've been frightening but somehow wasn't. He'd _wanted_ this. And not just here and not just now, but before here and before now. He'd wanted to know what Malfoy’s lips felt like when they weren't wrapped around spiteful words. He'd wanted to feel Malfoy’s tongue glide against his own, if only to see if it really was as sharp as it proclaimed. And he'd wanted to feel the palms of Malfoy's hands against his skin, to see if they could wipe away the bruises that could no longer be seen.

He'd wanted this.

Malfoy's fingers slid up his chest and around his neck, still wet and cold from holding his glass. They sent sharp shivers down Harry’s spine as they danced across his skin even as heat coursed through his blood at the sensation of the blond's tongue sliding hungrily against his own. Malfoy tasted of alcohol, and citrus, and expensive dark chocolate, and Harry couldn't get enough. Their mouths moved and their heads turned in time, each trying to explore every possible angle, wondering when they would find one that didn't fit. But they all did—from Malfoy crushing their lips together, his fingers fisted in Harry's hair, to Harry gripping the collar of the Malfoy’s shirt, his teeth gently teasing his bottom lip.

If Harry couldn't breathe before, it was nothing compared to now, especially with the blond's hand slowly slithering down the length of his torso. Slender fingers lifted the hem of his shirt to slide against the skin underneath.

"Malfoy," Harry gasped against the other man's lips.

Then, suddenly, Harry was shoved back. His head hit the arm of the couch and he could feel the entirety of Malfoy's weight pressing down on him. No, wait…not Malfoy. Damien. 

Fuck.

Harry opened his eyes, expecting to see any of a number of expressions on Damien's face…except the one that met him. What was it? Surprise? Fear? He didn’t know. All Harry knew was that Damien's eyes were wide, his brow was furrowed, and his mouth was pulled tight. Whatever he was feeling, it obviously wasn't pleasant.

"Why did you just call me that?" Damien asked softly.

Harry shifted beneath him, wishing his body would stop paying attention to how good the blond's thighs felt slotted against his own. "I am so sorry," Harry said. "I—it just sort of came out. I mean, you said this was all about fantasies, right? Has—has that never happened to you before?"

"No."

Harry swallowed, his face flushing. "Oh."

Damien's eyes narrowed. "Everyone who hasn't called me Damien has always called me Draco."

Harry didn't know how to respond to that…so he didn't.

A long moment passed. Damien's fingers curled against Harry's chest, his nails digging through the cloth of his shirt. "Do you…know me?"

"I…" Harry blinked. "Wait, what?"

“Do you know me?” he repeated sternly. "No one calls me Malfoy except people who know me, and those people are usually the ones that don't like me much."

A beat of silence, then—“Holy fuck!” Harry bucked hard, sending the blond careening to the floor. Harry sat up abruptly, feeling as if he'd just been punched in the gut. “Y—you—you're really Malfoy?”

Malfoy glared up at him, rubbing the back of his head tenderly where it must have hit the floor. “Yes, I think I've made that much clear, though I really don’t see why you had to be so violent about it. So who are _you_ then? How do you know me? I don't know any Johns.”

Harry's heart was going a mile a minute. This was Draco Malfoy. Draco Malfoy was sitting in front of him, lips swollen because Harry had just snogged the hell out of him. And he'd enjoyed it! Holy fuck. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck! He needed to get out of here. Now! And maybe go see a therapist on the way home.

He jumped to his feet, but Malfoy's hand was on his wrist in an instant.

“Oh no you don’t!” Malfoy used Harry's arm to pull himself to his feet. “You're not leaving until I find out who you are!” He pulled Harry in closer, and the Gryffindor was surprised by how strong he was. “Come now. Are you from the Ministry?”

Harry felt trapped, like a rabbit caught in a snake’s hypnotizing stare. He shook his head lamely.

"The book club?"

Malfoy was part of a book club? Harry shook his head again.

"Hogwarts?"

This time Harry didn't move. Why wasn't he lying? He really should be lying.

Malfoy smirked, and Harry mentally kicked himself for not seeing through his guise earlier. How many times had he seen that exact smirk on the Slytherin's stupidly gorgeous face? Something like that could be mimicked, but it couldn't be duplicated. Not that exactly. He should've known—he should've _seen_.

"Hogwarts, hm?" Malfoy looked excited by this. "Not a Slytherin then—I would've been able to tell. So who? Fletchly? Thomas? Merlin, you're not a Weasley are you?"

Harry gulped and shook his head once more.

"I don't know why you're freaking out," Malfoy said with a laugh. "Coming as Potter really isn't that big of a deal. I mean, it's not like…" The blond trailed off, and Harry could see the gears of his mind working behind his eyes. “Because you're not…I mean, you can't actually be…"

For some reason Harry's heart sank. "Harry Potter?"

Malfoy jerked his hand back like Harry's skin was on fire. His Adam's apple began bobbing up and down, and Harry couldn't help but stare at it.

"Holy fuck," Malfoy breathed.

Harry merely nodded. "I know."

“Potter?”

“Yes.”

“You’re… _you_ are Harry Potter.”

“You seem surprised.”

“Well of course I’m bloody surprised! Potter! What the fuck are you doing coming to a place like this as yourself!?”

Harry frowned at him. “In case you hadn't noticed, you came as yourself too!"

"And so that makes it okay for you to do it?" Malfoy gestured wildly. "If I jumped off a bridge would you jump too?”

"I didn't do it because you did it! How was I supposed to know you would be here? I didn't even know you were gay!"

There was a long pause.

Harry shifted on his feet, glaring at the blond. “This is the part where you're supposed to say that you didn't know I was gay either.”

Malfoy's lips quirked slightly.

"You knew? You can’t possibly have known!”

He shrugged. "I had an idea."

"Well great." Harry flung out his arms. "That's just great. Not only does my worst enemy have a crush on me, but he knew I was gay too!"

"Voldemort knew you were gay?"

"I was talking about you!"

Malfoy smirked, and Harry didn't know why his knees weakened at the sight of it. The blond stepped in closer, arching one perfectly groomed brow. “I don’t have a crush on you, Potter. I’m not four.”

“You said you fantasized about being with me,” Harry argued.

“Well yes. I find you,” Malfoy made something of a show of eyeing him up and down, “interesting.”

Harry had to swallow several times before he could get his mouth to work. "Interesting?"

“Also, calling me your worst enemy seems a bit harsh, don’t you think? I mean, I've always thought of our relationship as an adolescent rivalry instilled to mask our sexual tension."

"S-s-sexual tension?"

"Don't play coy, Potter," Malfoy said, running the tip of his finger up the length of Harry's arm. Harry knew he was doing it just to watch him squirm, but that didn't make the shivers trickling down his spine any less real. "You were practically begging me to kiss you the second you laid eyes on me tonight.”

Harry finally shied away from Malfoy’s touch. "That was before I knew you were you, and you knew I was me."

"And if we still didn't know, what do you suppose we'd be doing right now?"

Harry didn't respond, but he couldn't stop his eyes from flickering back to the couch where they had been sitting just minutes before. Frankly, as much as he hated to admit it, the Slytherin was right. If Malfoy's name hadn't slipped out of his traitorous mouth the two of them would most likely still be snogging each other senseless, naïve of everything that stood between them now. Harry supposed that it was better that they had found out, before things had gotten…out of hand, but even so there was a part of him—and a very small, minuscule, borderline microscopic part at that!—that wished they hadn't found out. That they could still be tangled in each other on that couch, breathless and panting and painfully hard. Okay, so maybe it wasn't that small. Harry's eyes flickered back up to Malfoy's lips, remembering how soft and plush they had felt against his own. Alright, maybe that part was fucking huge.

"See?" Malfoy said, pulling Harry from his reverie. He smiled then, and it was that sort of smile that obstinately proclaimed he knew something that Harry didn't. "You _like_ me."

Harry sputtered. "What? No I don't!" _Even though my pants are a little more than uncomfortable right now_.

"You really are a horrible liar," Malfoy remarked, snickering. "It's alright that you do. I just told you that I thought you looked fetching in a skirt, so you’re obviously not going to get rejected."

Harry stood motionless for what felt like a very long time. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying," the blond closed the distance between them once more, "who cares if you're you and I'm me? What does it even matter anymore?"

"It matters that we hate each other!"

Malfoy leaned down then and Harry could feel the heat of his breath pooling against his face. And there, under the glow of the lavender lights, Harry could've sworn he was caught in a dream, because there was no way this was real. The soft curve of Malfoy's cheek, the delicate line of his neck, the way his pale lashes curled down against the sharp grey of his eyes—there was no way someone could be that beautiful.

"You said my name when we kissed," he whispered so softly that Harry had to lean in closer to hear. "You don't hate me."

Harry's eyes dropped down to Malfoy’s lips for but a moment. “Yes I do,” the words were as weak as his resolve.

“I’d forgotten how endearingly stubborn you are.” Malfoy's lips curled. "Care to prove it then?”

By now Harry's heart was pounding so hard that he thought it might explode from his chest. He knew what the blond had just said, but somehow he couldn't manage to wrap a single coherent thought around the words, much less think up a response to them.

"I didn't think so," Malfoy whispered before crushing their lips together once more.

And suddenly Harry didn't care about words anymore, or that this was Malfoy, or that he really _really_ shouldn't be enjoying the other man's arm wrapped so tightly around his back. He couldn't explain it—there was just something in this. Heat? Ferocity? He didn't know, because it felt exactly the same as it had at Hogwarts, only now it had somehow twisted itself inside out. Harry was somehow experiencing a part of Malfoy that he had always been able to see, but until this moment had never been able to touch. And, Merlin help him, it felt good.

Harry's hands slid up and his fingers curled into the fabric of Malfoy's shirt, pulling him closer as their kiss deepened. The Slytherin's tongue slid against his lower lip, and Harry opened his mouth compliantly, moaning as he felt the heat of the other man's mouth mixing with his own. Smirking, Malfoy fisted his hands in Harry's hair and none too gently pulled his head back. Harry barely suppressed a gasp when he felt Malfoy’s teeth scrape against his bared skin. He didn't even have time to feel embarrassed by the issue that had so obviously developed between his legs, what with Malfoy's mouth driving him clear over the edge of insanity. His tongue traced small dizzying patterns that had Harry's nerves buzzing, while his teeth sent sharp electric jolts racing up and down his spine.

Yeah, okay, so his pants were definitely negotiable.

"Hey, um, Malfoy? I—" Harry's breath hitched as the blond hit a particularly sensitive bundle of nerves. Harry could feel the other man's smile press into his skin as he began to tease him mercilessly. "Do—do you want to go back to my place?"

Malfoy hummed against his neck, which did nothing to help with the predicament Harry's body was currently enduring. "Mmm, your place?"

Harry struggled to breathe as Malfoy's arm practically crushed their bodies together. Well…at least now he knew that the blond was just as turned on as he was. "Y-yes."

Malfoy pulled back, moving to nip at Harry's ear. "How about coffee instead?"

Now that the Slytherin's lips were clear of his neck, Harry's mind finally began swimming back towards rational thought. Though, admittedly, Harry had never been a good swimmer. "Coffee?" he mumbled.

"Yes." His breath was so hot. "Tomorrow. Perhaps somewhere in Diagon Alley?"

"Tomorrow? Why tomorrow?"

"Malfoy laughed. "Because it's 2am, and it's time for us to go home."

"Home?" Harry blinked, suddenly realizing that the music from the other room had stopped and the room they were in was all but empty. "The club's already closing?"

"In the club's defense, you did get here pretty late." Malfoy's hand slid down to grab his own, and with a self-satisfied sort of smile he began pulling Harry towards the exit. “So, coffee then?”

Harry stared down at their hands for a long moment. Butterflies were still fluttering in his stomach, and this really had to be the most bizarre thing that had ever happened to him in his whole life. “You’re talking about…a date?"

"Yes," Malfoy replied without skipping a beat.

"Oh."

"Oh? So you just wanted to get in my pants then? Get your 'I fucked a Slytherin' badge and be done with it?"

"No!" Harry said, shaking his head and tightening his grip on Malfoy's hand. "No, that's not what I meant at all. I just thought—you know—that _you_ wouldn't want to."

Malfoy's eyes narrowed skeptically. "I asked you, didn't I?"

_Uh_ …"Yeah?"

"Then why the hell wouldn't _I_ want to?"

_Holy mother of Merlin's beard, Harry, stop being such a total and complete idiot_! "Right! Well—er—then yeah, we should try that."

There was an uncomfortably long pause. "You've been single for a really long time, haven't you?"

"Three years." Harry looked speculatively at the other man. "How did you know?"

Malfoy's cheek creased as his mouth lifted up into its usual smirk—Harry was mildly surprised the line hadn't stuck around permanently yet. "Well it was either that or you had some sort of social disorder, so I decided to be hopeful and go with the former."

Harry snorted.

"Not to worry, Potter!" Malfoy said, his smirk melting into laughter. "You've come to the right man. Who knows? Maybe you'll get that 'I fucked a Slytherin badge sooner than you think." He winked, and Harry couldn't manage to stop a blush from creeping up his neck and into his cheeks.

They had reached the street entrance now. Both of them slowed to a stop, their hands still intertwined and pressed between them. Silence filled the air for a long while. Neither of them, it seemed, wanted to be the first to end the night. Harry knew that stepping out that door tonight would be like stepping out of a dream and back into reality. That's what this was after all, wasn't it? A dream? How could it possibly be anything else? He was standing here holding _Draco Malfoy's_ hand for Merlin's sake! And enjoying it! 

Harry squeezed Malfoy's hand, and Malfoy squeezed his right back. It was the scariest, most exhilarating feeling in the whole world.

"So," Harry said softly, "you'll owl me, maybe?"

Malfoy looked at him then, and Harry's heart fluttered because nobody had ever looked at him like _that_. Then, Malfoy leaned down and pressed his lips softly against Harry's, and breathed out the word, "Definitely."

 


	2. Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Draco go on their first date...

Blue, red, or green? Harry scowled as he stared at the three shirts that were currently lying on his bed. Picking out a shirt really shouldn’t be this hard. He should just close his eyes and grab one for fuck’s sake. It wasn’t as if Malfoy, who was going to be here in—Harry glanced at his watch— _shit_ , ten minutes, was going to care which one he picked. Harry stared down at the shirts despairingly. Why had he picked button-downs again? They were only going to make him sweat, and it wasn’t as if coffee houses had any sort of dress code. But he didn’t have time to go back through his wardrobe…

Drawing in his resolve, Harry pressed his eyes shut and grabbed. He came away with the green one. Quickly, he threw it on and walked over to his full length mirror.

Harry gulped. Wrong, wrong, all of it wrong. He’d obviously grown since he’d purchased the shirt; it fell awkwardly short and boxed out along the sides. And considering the fact that his—still wet—hair was like something straight out of a swamp, the overall effect was nothing short of trollish. By Merlin, he was an undatable swamp troll!

Then, like a siren from hell, the doorbell rang.

Heart jumping up into his throat, Harry looked down at his watch once more. The ponce was early! Or was his watch just running behind? Crap…

Harry ripped off the shirt, throwing it across the room before striding to his dresser. He yanked out his favorite blue v-neck—mentally blocking out the fact that it had two small holes along the bottom hem which Malfoy would undoubtably notice—and jerked it over his head. It clung to his wet skin, rolling up along his ribcage as he stumbled down the stairs. 

When he reached the door, he flung it open, realizing a split-second afterwards that he’d just opened his own door like an Auror raiding a crime scene instead of a completely normal person waiting on a date. Malfoy’s grey eyes met him on the other side, large and obviously surprised. 

Harry gaped at him. “I—hello—Merlin, I’m sorry…”

“Hello,” Malfoy replied mildly.

“I don’t usually open doors like that.”

“That’s good to know. I’m not sure most doors could take it.” He smiled, and Harry felt his knees wobble a little. Of course the prick had to look brilliant. Bloody gorgeous actually. He was wearing a button-down of the palest pink which was cuffed up to his elbows and unbuttoned at the neck to reveal a glorious sliver of alabaster skin. His charcoal trousers were sharply creased, and folded neatly over the laces of his oxfords. Whatever the opposite of a swamp troll was, that’s what Malfoy looked like. 

Malfoy’s eyes flicked up briefly to Harry’s hair. “Forgot I was coming, did you?”

“No!” Harry practically yelled, startling several birds from the nearby trees. He resisted the urge to glare at them as they flew away. “No,” Harry repeated, making an effort to be much quieter about it this time. “I’m just…not very good at getting ready for…events.”

The side of Malfoy’s mouth lifted. “Is this an event?”

“It’s not work. Therefore it’s an event.”

“I see,” Malfoy said. “Hence why you were so late getting to the club last night?”

Red crept into Harry’s cheeks. He had, in fact, spent well over two hours trying to prepare for the evening. Never mind that the larger part of those two hours had been spent trying on every single article of clothing he owned. After growing up with the Dursleys, putting together a wardrobe wasn’t exactly one of his strong suits. 

Malfoy’s smirk deepened, the dimple on his left cheek making its grand appearance. Harry’s eyes flicked over to it, admiring its shape. “Do you want help then?” Malfoy asked. “With your hair, I mean? I could charm it dry for you.”

“Oh, um, sure. Come in.” Harry stepped aside, and allowed Malfoy space to enter. 

Malfoy waltzed into the foyer like he owned the place, his head swiveling to take in the small room. “I see that you haven’t done much with it.”

Harry closed the door. “What do you mean?”

“The foyer. It looks exactly the same as it always has,” Malfoy said.

“You’ve been here before?”

“Oh, sure.” Malfoy peered around the hallway corner into the drawing room. “We used to spend Easters here before Aunt Walburga died.”

The fact that Sirius had been related to the Malfoys in any fashion still gave Harry the willies. They were all just so…horrible. Well, most of them were horrible. The youngest Malfoy seemed to have turned out…alright—if alright were to change its definition to indecently gorgeous. Especially when he leaned over like that. 

With a good amount of difficulty, Harry pried his eyes away from the perfection that was Malfoy’s arse and looked at the back of his shoulders instead. But even that part of him seemed perfect. Who had perfect shoulders anyway? Apparently Malfoy did. Harry suddenly realized that he really needed to say something before he started mentally cataloging all of the other perfect things on Malfoy’s body. 

“Well that’s…weird.” Harry said.

Malfoy turned back to look at him. “Is it?”

Shit. He was already sticking his foot in his mouth and the date hadn’t even technically started yet. “It’s not—I mean—I just forgot that Sirius was your uncle.” _Great, Harry, bring up your dead godfather. Next you can start swapping war stories and conspiracy theories. That’ll really set the mood._

Malfoy took a step towards him, smiling. “You’re nervous.”

Harry gulped and tried not to look like a cornered mouse as he watched Malfoy retrieve his wand from his pocket.

“Don’t be.” Malfoy swished his wand and Harry felt warmth trickle over his skull. He ran a testing hand through his hair and found it completely dry.

Malfoy took another step forward, putting him closer than Harry was completely comfortable with. “There,” he said, his voice smooth and silken. “All better. You look very nice by the way.”

Harry, who had never in his life been told that he “looked very nice”, blushed like an idiot. For some reason he couldn’t stop looking at Malfoy’s eyelashes—they were so pale, as if a cold winter morning had permanently frosted them over. People weren’t supposed to have eyelashes like that…unless they were the heroes of fairy tales or romance novels. Maybe Malfoy slayed dragons and rescued buxom heroines in his free time. 

“Don’t you think that,” Malfoy loomed closer, “I look nice too?”

Harry’s brain short-circuited as the scent Malfoy’s cologne filled his nose and coated his throat. “I—uh—um…” Harry stuttered dumbly.

Malfoy grinned, his lips parting to reveal two rows of pearlescent teeth. “I’ll take that as a yes. Now, how about that coffee?”

How Malfoy expected Harry to be able to form coherent sentences while he was standing this close was beyond him. Especially since they’d snogged each other senseless not twenty-four hours ago.

“You _are_ going to be able to carry a conversation whilst being within three feet of each other without alcohol involved, aren’t you?”

Harry blinked and took an affronted step back. “Yes.”

Something in Malfoy’s grey eyes sparked. “Good. Mind if I apparate us out of here then?”

Harry bit his lip. “Couldn’t we Floo?” he asked. 

“They don’t have a connection there.”

Harry wrinkled his nose and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’m not really much for apparating.”

“Oh?” One of Malfoy’s pale brows lifted skeptically. He extended out his hand, a ghost of his old sneer twisting the lines of his face. “Scared, Potter?”

Like the flip of a switch, Harry felt himself bristle. A shiver ran up his spine, tensing the muscles in his shoulders. “You wish.” He reached out and took Malfoy’s hand, gripping it firmly. 

Not a moment later, Harry’s stomach lurched and all of the air flew out of his lungs. They landed with a hard thud on a crowded sidewalk, and Harry stumbled to the side, barely managing to catch himself against a brick wall. Unfortunately, even when he came to a stop, the world kept spinning around him. For a terrifying moment, he was sure that he was going to be sick. He really needed to stop letting his ego make his decisions. 

Malfoy came up behind him, his palm pressing against the small of Harry’s back. “You alright?”

Harry nodded as he sucked air deep into his lungs. Each breath he took seemed to slow the spinning down, though Malfoy’s hand on his back was doing nothing for his elevated heart rate. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Malfoy nod cordially at a few concerned passersby. One woman even came up and asked him…something. In French.

Nausea forgotten, Harry whirled on Malfoy. “Where the hell did you apparate us to?”

Malfoy smiled innocently. “Everyone knows that Paris has the best coffee.”

“Paris!” Harry hissed incredulously. “I thought you said we were going somewhere near Diagon Alley.”

Malfoy shrugged. “I was using drunk judgment when I said that.”

“Malfoy!”

“I’m sorry. Would you have preferred somewhere in London where we would’ve been recognized and probably harassed while sipping our lackluster cappuccinos?”

“Well, no but, you could’ve spliced us—apparating that far! And into a crowded street on top of that! I—” Harry looked around, blinking. “How did you do that anyway?”

Something bright seemed to burst just beneath Malfoy’s skin. “Apparate us into the crowd without anyone noticing?”

Harry nodded.

Pride swelled across Malfoy’s features, and sunlight seemed to be glistening off of him as if he was made of marble. “I used a special type of concealing charm on top of the apparition spell. It makes everyone within a thirty foot radius believe that they just saw us walk out of a nearby door or an alley.” His smile broadened. “I constructed it myself.”

“You—you constructed it _yourself_?” Harry goggled out him. “I—that’s _insane_.”

Malfoy’s expression faltered. “When you say insane…”

“I mean it’s bloody brilliant, isn’t it?” Harry laughed, staring at the people that brushed casually past them with newfound admiration. He wished he knew French—he wanted to ask one of them how they saw him get onto the sidewalk. Of course, that was probably inane and completely creepy, but that was beside the point.  “Wow,” Harry sighed. “I didn’t even know that you could make up spells like that.”

There was a hint of the arrogance that Harry had grown so used to at Hogwarts in the curve of Malfoy’s lips, but it had altered somehow. There was a sense of accomplishment behind it now. “Do you want me to tell you how I did it on the way to the cafe? You’re okay to walk now, aren’t you?”

Harry nodded, beaming.

 

~oOo~

 

Somehow, Harry had made it through a whole twenty years of life without knowing that he was, in fact, incredibly stupid. He’d always had a general suspicion about the matter, sure, but a mere ten minutes listening to Malfoy had made him quite certain that he was hanging from the bottom rung of the intellectual ladder. No, scratch that. He was the mold that grew on the bottom of the ladder’s feet after being left in the mud for too long. 

As they waited at the counter for their coffee (which Malfoy had ordered in French, tallying another item on Harry’s ‘weird kinks’ list), Harry couldn’t help but shake his head as Malfoy used a sentence with at least four words he had never even heard before.

“I’m boring you,” Malfoy said despairingly.

“No!” Harry shook his head. “No. No, you’re not. I’m just afraid I’m a bit…out of my depth.”

“I shouldn’t have rambled on about it.”

“No, it’s alright. You’re—I never realized that you were that smart. It’s a bit sexy really.” _Wow._ Harry frowned miserably. _‘Sexy’, Harry? Really? That’s the best you could come with? You should’ve brought a shovel if you wanted to dig your own grave so badly._

Luckily, the barista chose that particular moment to deliver their coffees. Harry grabbed for his, tucking his tail between his legs and turning to find a table. He grabbed a small, round one by the window and sipped at the layer of foam on his latte while he waited for Malfoy to join him.

Malfoy pulled out the chair across from him, and slid languidly down into it. Harry vaguely wondered if he was capable of doing anything ungracefully. “So,” he raised a single, pale brow, “you think I’m sexy?”

Heat flooded Harry’s cheeks. He attempted to mask it by taking another drink of his coffee but only served to spill some down his chin. “I—well, uh, I mean…”

“Lest you forget, I _did_ kiss you last night. I think you’re sexy too.”

How in the world could Malfoy make that word sound so cool and casual, and yet when Harry said it, it sounded like a freight train hitting a thousand dying cats? But that was beside the point. Whatever adjectives Harry used to describe himself, sexy certainly wasn’t one of them.

“How long has it been since you’ve dated again?” Malfoy asked. 

“I—er—three years.”

“I see. Pining for me that whole time were you?”

Harry nearly choked on his coffee.

For some reason it made Malfoy laugh. He had a nice laugh; light and effervescent. “Come on, Potter.” Malfoy kicked at him under the table. “Loosen up, will you?”

“If that’s supposed to be some sort of innuendo…”

“It’s not,” Malfoy chuckled. “But good to know where your mind is.”

Harry blanched.

“Potter…” Malfoy cooed miserably.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, staring down at his coffee. His knuckles were white from gripping the cup so hard. “I’m just…no good at this.”

“At what?”

“At this! At dating!”

“Then let’s not,” Malfoy said.

Harry’s eyes whipped up, every muscle in his body seizing at once. He expected Malfoy to look mad, or frustrated, or disconcerted, or—hell—anything but how he actually looked. Namely, smug with a dash of self-assured arrogance. 

Harry blinked. “I—what?”

“If you’re not good at dating, then let’s not date.”

“But we’re on a date right now,” Harry said.

Malfoy tipped his head to one side and took a sip of his cappucino. “Not necessarily.”

A strange heat coiled in Harry’s stomach and radiated out until every inch of him was alive with it. He wanted to reach across the table, grab Malfoy by his ridiculously nice, cotton-candy pink shirt, and punch him in the nose. “What the hell do you mean, ‘not necessarily’? You’re the one who asked me out!”

“That was before I knew you’d be so bad at it.” Malfoy smirked and set his cup down.

“Don’t be a git!” 

A couple of people glanced over at them, and Harry bit his tongue, realizing too late that he’d raised his voice.

 Laughter rolled through Malfoy like a steel ball; cold and fast. “I’m sorry. Have you ever found me to be a particularly _nice_ person?”

“Well…no, but—”

“And yet here you are.”

Whatever retort had just been sitting on the tip of Harry’s tongue fell off, leaving him gaping. He stared at Malfoy, who stared straight back, his gaze cool and unwavering. 

“My point is,” Malfoy continued, “we don’t have to put any pressure on this. If it makes things easier, we can just be two old schoolmates catching up. Or, well,” something bright flashed across Malfoy’s eyes, “two old schoolmates who are completely and unreasonably attracted to each other.”

“Unreasonably?” Harry repeated.

Malfoy shook his head and chuckled, his hair reflecting the sunlight like a halo. “Really? _That’s_ the part you focused on?”

Harry stared at him, quite sure his face had never felt this hot before. He hoped that the light was washing out the red that was invariably making his face look like a ripe tomato. “I just mean that—er—well—”

“Use your words, Potter.”

Scratch that. Apparently his face could get hotter. “IreallythinkthatIdowanttodateyou.” Harry pushed out all of the words in one breath, his heart pounding against his ribs. _Great, as if you didn’t sound like enough of a baffoon already. Now you’re not even forming intelligible sentences!_

“Come again?” Malfoy asked even as his dimple deepened.

“I want this to be a date,” Harry said, taking his time to enunciate every word, which probably did nothing but made him sound like he was suffering from a speech impediment. “I mean…I do if you do.”

And really, no one’s smile should be as radiant as Malfoy’s was. It was indecent, and it made Harry was to thread his fingers through his hair and snog the living daylights out of him. “I do,” Malfoy said.

Relief flooded Harry like a tidal wave. He was pretty sure he melted a bit in his seat.

“If you don’t mind my asking though, who was the last person you dated?”

And like the flick of a switch, Harry’s spine went rigid once more. “Er—isn’t it like, a faux pas to talk about exes on a first date?” 

“Look at you using French words! I’m such a good influence on you already.”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “It was Ginny.”

One of Malfoy’s pale, perfectly manicured brows lifted. He took a long sip from his cappuccino before setting it delicately back down, his eyes never once leaving Harry’s. “And did things between the two of you end because…?”

“Because I’m gay?” Harry nodded. “Yeah. It, uh, didn’t end up well. And I haven’t been able to steadily date anyone since.”

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t know.” Harry rolled his bottom lip under his teeth as his shoulders lifted helplessly. “I still feel guilty about it I guess. About…hurting her.” He’d never said the words out loud before. There was something nice about finally admitting it to someone. He’d never been able to talk to Ron and Hermione about it—they’d been too close to the whole situation to really understand. Plus it was Ron’s baby sister. There was no winning against that. 

Malfoy merely hummed and nodded, the cords of muscle in his neck tightening. “I had a similar situation with Astoria Greengrass. It took me a long time to come to terms with the fact that what happened between us was nobody’s fault. I mean, it was bound to happen eventually—she just happened to be the unlucky soul I was dating when it did.”

“Were you ever able to patch things up with her?” Harry asked, trying and failing to mask the hope in his voice. 

“Eventually. We’re not best friends or anything, but we’re able to be around each other at social gatherings without making the entire room uncomfortable. That’s a win as far as I’m concerned.”

Deflating, Harry nodded. After a moment, he took another drink from his latte.

“So then have you even had sex with a man yet?”

The coffee he’d just swallowed decided to reappear and spew over the table. Somehow, Malfoy managed to lift a napkin in time to block most of the spray. Several heads turned to stare at Harry, and one girl at a nearby table even got up and moved to a different seat. Embarrassment warmed Harry’s cheeks as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

Malfoy peeked around the edge of his napkin as if he was checking for a gunman. “Note to self: don’t ask Potter questions when he has liquid in his mouth.”

Harry couldn’t help but bristle even as heat coursed through him. “In my defense, that’s kind of an insane question!”

“I don’t think ‘insane’ is the adjective you’re looking for. Pertinent, maybe?”

“You’re not even supposed to ask those kinds of questions on dates.”

“How would you know? You’re the one here who doesn’t date.” Grinning, Malfoy crumpled his napkin and threw it down on the table. “You still haven’t answered by the way.”

Harry was fairly certain that the cloth beneath his armpits was already starting to dampen. He felt hot all over, and his skin was starting to prickle in strange places. 

“I’m going to take that as a no.”

Resilience bubbled up Harry’s throat. “I’ve done…stuff!”

“Stuff?” Malfoy smirked, his grey eyes sparking. “How descriptive.”

“It’s not really any of your business!”

“Says the man who invited me back to his place last night. What would we have done when we got there do you suppose? _Stuff_?” 

Harry’s mouth went instantly dry. Because he really should not be thinking about what would’ve happened last night if Malfoy had come home with him. Especially whilst in a crowded coffee shop. 

Malfoy laughed once more, but there was something different about it this time. It rolled across Harry’s skin like a dark promise. “Are you finished with your coffee?” he asked, his voice as rich and sweet as dripping honey.

An uncontrollable shiver skittered down Harry’s spine. All he could seem to do was nod.

Malfoy rose out of his seat, his limbs unfolding and realigning in perfect stature before he offered his hand out to Harry. It felt as if Harry’s brain was short-circuiting as he placed his hand in Malfoy’s. His skin felt cool and dry, and Harry panicked for a moment when he realized how clammy his own were. But Malfoy didn’t pull away. He just threaded their fingers together and ushered Harry out of the coffee shop.

Harry felt as if he had stepped out of reality and into a dream. Everything around him seemed blurred around the edges, drifting around him in vague waves of muted color. The only thing that remained in sharp focus was Malfoy’s back—the hard lines so sure and undeniably _present_. Then, suddenly, Malfoy pulled him around a corner and before Harry had a chance to register what was happening, he was being crowded back against a wall.

Malfoy’s hand abandoned his to slide up the side of his neck, and Harry released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Malfoy was standing incredibly close, their bodies separated by the barest fraction of air that did nothing to quell the heat that was rising in Harry’s veins. Every inch of him seemed to be filled with anticipation for what was about to happen. 

Malfoy leaned in, pressing their foreheads together and let out a shuddering breath. He was trembling, though Harry hadn’t the faintest idea why. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, his hands sliding farther up to cup Harry’s jaw. “I know that I should wait until the end of our date to do this, but you’ve been driving me absolutely mad.”

Harry lifted his hands to Malfoy’s hips and felt a wave of magic ripple between them, sensual and purring. Something about it made Harry’s stomach flip. “Me?”

“You’re such an idiot.” Only Malfoy could call someone an idiot and somehow make it sound like a compliment. “If you want me to stop you’re going to have to say so now. Otherwise, I’m about to snog you until you’re too weak to stand.”

Harry’s stomach did another spectacular flip as heat flooded south. Because holy shit, it really shouldn’t be possible for someone to say those kinds of things and still sound hot as hell. Harry wanted to reply with something equally cool and debonair, but all that came out was a quivering, “Okay.”

But it didn’t matter, because Malfoy’s lips were on his not an instant later. They were even softer than Harry remembered, coaxing his mouth open and flooding him with sensation. Malfoy’s tongue slid against his, drawing out a noise Harry was quite sure he’d never made before. Apparently kissing was way better without the inhibition of alcohol. It was overwhelming how aware he was of every part of Malfoy’s body. Of his fingertips pressing into his pulse points. Of his chest rising and falling in ragged pants as he pushed Harry harder against the wall. Of his thigh slotting between Harry’s legs and driving all coherent thought out of his mind.

Harry could already feel himself unraveling beneath Malfoy’s touch. Every time their mouths slid together sent another spike of lust through Harry’s blood, and it wasn’t long until the ache between his legs grew beyond his control. His hips moved on their own accord, creating only a hint of the friction he craved, but even still he couldn’t help but shudder as his breath pooled against Malfoy’s lips.

“Let’s go back to my place. Or yours, I don’t care,” Harry whispered, his hips moving once more. Merlin, Malfoy had reduced him to acting like a sex-deprived teenager. “Please.”

Malfoy’s fingers curled, his nails scraping against the base of Harry’s skull. “Merlin, Potter…” His head dipped to the side, his teeth dragging against the tender skin along the curve of Harry’s throat.

Harry’s breath hitched, his lips pursing to keep the whine in his throat from open air. “Please,” Harry repeated, if only because he wasn’t sure he was capable of saying anything else. Since when did snogging make it this hard to speak? 

“I want to. Merlin, I want to.” There was an ache, deep and tender, in Malfoy’s voice. “The things I want to do to you are borderline criminal.”

Harry shuddered.

Malfoy tensed beneath Harry’s fingers, and with a sharp intake of breath, pulled back. “But I can’t. Not yet anyway.”

Harry barely managed not to pout at the loss of contact. He did, however, refuse to release his hold on Malfoy’s shirt. “Why not?” He sounded like a child who’d just been denied sweets.

“Because I think I really like you,” Malfoy said, a soft smile easing the lines of his face. He looked like something that had just waltzed out of a wet dream—his skin bright and dusted with hues of pink and gold. “And I’m trying to be a gentleman here.”

Harry tugged at his shirt petulantly. “Being a gentleman is boring.” Pretty much doing anything that involved clothing sounded boring at the moment.

Grinning, Malfoy leaned in and brushed a chaste kiss against Harry’s temple. “I’d like to take you out again. Tomorrow, maybe?”

“But you’re not done taking me out now!”

Malfoy laughed, and something about it soothed the boiling heat in Harry’s veins. “Indeed I’m not. The Eiffel Tower is just around the corner. Have you ever been?”

Harry shook his head. “No. I’ve never been to Paris.”

Malfoy’s features went abruptly blank. He stared at Harry for a disturbingly long time without blinking. 

“Er, did I break you?” 

Finally, Malfoy blinked. “I think you might have. Potter! How have you never been to Paris?” Malfoy grabbed his hand and yanked Harry back out onto the street.

Harry yelped, and tried to be discreet about adjusting his trousers even though he was pretty sure anyone who looked at him for more than two seconds wouldn’t be able to miss that he’d just been ravaged by the man who was currently hauling him down the sidewalk. 

“I have so much to show you!” Malfoy exclaimed, throwing his arm up and pushing them to an even faster pace. “I hope you slept well because we’re going to be here all night!”

Harry grinned. He had absolutely no problem with that. 

 

 


End file.
